


Seven

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for strickens_girl's prompt, "role reversal." I switch the roles and personality types of Pavel and Bones. Wackiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intense Dislike: A Prequel

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Me? I think not.  
> Notes/Warnings: Way AU.

When the doors to the turbo-lift open, Dr. Pavel Andreievich Chekov boards--noting absently that there's already someone on it--his mind on his work as always.  
  
  
Yeoman Narvaez's compound sprain is healed, but it's likely she's still experiencing some stiffness and loss of motor function. Of course, no one on this ship bothers to keep follow-up appointments like they should, and Pavel is forced to run all over Enterprise, making certain these injured idiots aren't relapsing, or worse.  
  
  
Unfortunately for him and except for Christine, he wouldn't trust most of his subordinates as far as he could throw them.  
  
  
If only Jim would try leading by example in this wise, as he does in all other areas of his command. Pavel has to practically ambush the  _captain_  in his quarters after dangerous away missions just to--  
  
  
“So, Doc . . . you're really only seventeen, hunh?”  
  
  
Startled and almost offended at this intrusion into his mental-space, Pavel shoots the other passenger a quick look, and glares. Random conversations with his intellectual and professional inferiors is one of the many reasons he hates sharing turbo-lifts. That, and the invasion of his personal-bubble. “ _Govno_! Jim newer keeps his beeg mouth shut!”  
  
  
“Aw, I don't mean nothin'  _disparagin_ ', Doc, just . . . I think it's pretty inspirin', someone accomplishin' so much so young,” the other passenger, Lieutenant McCoy drawls. He's scruffy about the face and fills out his uniform neatly and very well . . . if one likes the tall, dark, and rakishly handsome type, that is.  
  
  
Pavel realizes he's staring, and that McCoy is staring back unabashedly, smiling slow and sweet, like warm honey.  
  
  
“Starfleet must have a lotta faith in you, Doc.”  
  
  
“Are you implying that their faith is misplaced?” Pavel demands, scowling and defensive, his stomach churning. Bad enough he had to constantly take this shit from his peers in the Academy medical school, but from some . . . unshaven, slow-witted  _fly-boy_  . . . it's simply unacceptable.  
  
  
“Lord, I must be off my game. What I meant to say was,” the navigator begins wryly, his dark, intent eyes giving Pavel a very direct and too-familiar once over. “You're a gorgeous young man, Dr. Pavel. But goddamn if you wouldn't be an absolute  _stunner_  if you smiled more. I'll just bet you're  _somethin'_  when you smile. You must just . . .  _glow_.”  
  
  
Startled speechless, Pavel blinks. Then blinks again, his face turning red. “Oh! I--I--”  
  
  
“Anyway, this's me. Have a good one, Doc,” McCoy winks and steps forward just as the doors open onto the Bridge. He hails several of the personnel by their first names (Lieutenant Sulu by an unnecessarily complicated high-five) and he even has a good word for Commander Spock.  
  
  
Pavel stares after him blankly, then shakes his head. “Computer . . . Deck, em . . . 17, please.”  
  
  
He's quite certain that once he's had time to think about and pick apart this incident, that he'll discover he dislikes this effortlessly . . .  _easy_  man. Dislikes him  _intensely_.  
  
  
At least that's what he tells himself as closing doors obstruct his view of  _the most_  divine ass he's ever seen.  
  
  
 _Intense . . . dislike_. . . .


	2. Seven: First Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "seven deadly sins", chosen by strickens_girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

All the interrupted lunches and co-opted dinners--all the not-so-accidental meetings. The repeated invasion of his personal space that set his teeth on edge, till . . . it didn't anymore.  
  
  
The warm, expectant looks, like Pavel was being terribly slow about figuring something out, but never mind, as Navigator McCoy has all the time in the world.  
  
  
And finally, the late night chime at his office door. . . .  
  
  
 _All these things, and more, led to this moment,_  Pavel decides angrily, trying to glare holes into McCoy's bare, muscular back. Instead, he finds himself running a hand gently and slowly down smooth skin, in complete contrast to his thrusts.  
  
  
McCoy's hands are braced on Pavel's desk, sometimes curling, sometimes sliding or scrambling. The man himself is panting like a bellows, gasping or grunting. His body--rather hastily stretched and prepared--fights Pavel even as it accepts him. Muscles in Mcoy's shoulders and arms cord with effort.  
  
  
There isn't a single part of him, from skin to DNA, that Pavel can't categorize or label.  _Isn't currently_  categorizing and labeling even as his overwhelmed body tries to drag him under.  
  
  
“It'd be . . . awful swell . . . if you'd could--” McCoy's hand leaves the desk to cover Pavel's smaller one, and tries to drag it around from hip to groin.   
  
  
“No.” Pavel's having none of  _that_ , please and thank you. He's in no mood to be accommodating. No mood to give McCoy the laughable idea that  _his_  pleasure means anything to Pavel whatsoever.  
  
  
“C' _mon_.” Laughter and desperation war in McCoy's honey-voice. “Reach-around . . . ain't just a city . . . on Tandor Prime, Doc.”  
  
  
Pavel almost laughs. But doesn't. Makes up for the near-lapse by decreasing the frequency and increasing the intensity of his thrusts, till McCoy yelps and swears. “I think not. You vanted this so badly, Lieutenant . . . now you've got it. So get off on it, or don't get off at all. I assure you, I do not ca--”  
  
  
McCoy lets out a long, low, wavering moan and his body gone tense, clenching down tight around Pavel. Who finds himself plastered to McCoy's damp back, his own legs shaking, hands clamped on McCoy's hips . . . his rhythm gone spastic as the navigator shakes and judders under him like a speeding jalopy down an old dirt road.  
  
  
Nonsense like:  _baby, please, more, Jesus, yeah,_ fuck _, Pavel_ , falls from McCoy's lips as he shoots messily and copiously all over Pavel's desk, several PADDs . . . and the monitor. . . .  
  
  
“Je- _sus_.” McCoy's arms tremble noticeably, and his hair is clinging to his nape in sweaty curls. He is . . . strangely affecting, this way.  
  
  
Not that Pavel's never seen another man come . . . well, he's never seen it in person, anyway. So he's not certain what he should be doing, he only knows that he's not angry anymore, and thus has no idea what, exactly, he  _is_  besides in-over-his-head and  _young_.  
  
  
McCoy's hand covers his own again, simply resting there.  
  
  
“'Sokay, Doc, just . . . let go,” he says hoarsely, glancing over his shoulder and smiling tiredly. Manages to clench his no doubt sore muscles even as he pushes back against Pavel, and . . . every protective barrier Pavel's ever erected tumbles and crashes like a plywood shed. He's finally, for once, fully inhabiting a moment--is held tight and deep by McCoy's body, both unable and unwilling to imagine being anywhere else, even as pleasure becomes pain, and morphs back into pleasure so unbearable, tears blur his already compromised vision.  
  
  
He understands firsthand, now, what the “big deal” is about sex. And now that he understands, he's . . . surely about to  _die_  of the knowledge.  
  
  
“Lieutenant McCoy--” Pavel whimpers, closes his eyes and dies.  
  



	3. Seven: Second Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt chosen by strickens_girl, "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

Pavel is surprised when Lieutenant McCoy shows up at his office the next afternoon. Surprised and  _flustered_.  
  
“You look like a man in dire need of lunch,” McCoy announces--easily, the way he says and does _everything_ , and Pavel would  _despise_  the man if a near-painful tsunami of scalding  _want_  didn't wash that animus away, along with most of the Cyrillic alphabet, his first year med school classes, and his middle name.   
  
“I am far too busy.” Too bad his idle hands (one clasping a tepid, mostly-finished Vulcan mocha, the other editing a make-work report on one of many PADDs) tell another story.  
  
McCoy's eyebrows inch up his forehead in a way that would probably be funny, if Pavel had ever wasted time cultivating a sense of humor. “You don't look far too busy.”   
  
“That's because I am in busyness stealth-mode. Go avay,” Pavel says flatly, and McCoy chuckles, an infectious sort of thing that somehow, impossibly, makes him handsomer. Makes Pavel's empty stomach turn over.   
  
“There's absolutely nothin' cuter than a funny doctor,” McCoy murmurs, drifting into the office. The doors close behind him, shutting out the noise of the Sickbay. “Sure you don't wanna make a  _little_  time for lunch? I hear tell that's the most important meal of the day.”  
  
“ _All_  meals are important, Lieutenant McCoy,” Pavel corrects loftily, and McCoy smiles like he just scored a point.  
  
“Then maybe you oughtta drop your bullshit stealth-mode and make time for lunch.”  
  
“Maybe. But it doesn't follow that I  _must_  make time for lunch with  _you_ , does it? Vhy are you _here_ , Lieutenant McCoy?”  
  
“Since you fucked the common sense outta me less'n twelve hours ago, couldn't you maybe call me 'Leo'?” Off Pavel's unchanging stare, McCoy sighs wistfully. “You're a tough nut to crack, Dr. Pavel.”  
  
“Then perhaps you should take the hint—or perhaps should I notify Security?”  
  
“Oh, don't be like that.” McCoy rolls his eyes, and crosses the room. Pavel sits back--pushes his chair back to the wall, as if there's any escape to be had that way. McCoy is, after all, a navigator. He knows his way around  _everywhere_ , and he wastes no time now, getting from point A to point B--point B being between Pavel and his desk. . . .  
  
Or between Pavel's right leg and his left, and it's now that Pavel realizes he's been hard all along. Since McCoy stepped into his office . . . maybe much longer.  
  
McCoy kneels, never once breaking eye contact, and Pavel swallows, knowing that when he speaks, his voice will crack. “Vh-vhy are you here, Mr. McCoy?”  
  
Dark, dark eyes gaze up into his own, intense, unwavering, unreadable, and still infernally good-natured. Big, heavy hands land on his thighs and knead slowly, and McCoy leans in as if to confide a secret.  
  
“Baby, I'm here to suck your dick, then take you to the Mess for a burger. And maybe some chili cheese fries,” he adds, and Pavel snorts, his eyes fluttering shut. “Sound good, Doc?”  
  
“I--” Pavel falters when McCoy undoes his fly and snakes a hand into his boxers, then hisses when cool air hits his cock just as McCoy licks the tip teasingly. “I  _hate_  chili cheese f-fries.”  
  
“Hmm.” Another raspy, thoughtful lick. Then suction so intense, Pavel would come but for McCoy's restraining grip on him. When McCoy applies his teeth just a little, that's a level of good so far beyond anything in Pavel's experience that if he were capable of speech, he would beg. Simply . . . beg. “If you like, we c'n get onion rings, instead.”  
  
Pavel drops the mocha as he's swallowed whole.


	4. Seven: Third Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt chosen by strickens_girl, "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

They are  _always_ , together. Lieutenant McCoy and Lieutenant Sulu.  
  
  
It's common knowledge that they're best friends--as inseparable a duo as ever there was. Met on the connecting shuttle from Wherever, to San Francisco and the Academy, and have been in each other's back pockets ever since.  
  
  
Not an unusual story--Pavel knows of several pairs on Enterprise to whom the same thing has happened, and can include his own friendship with Jim in that category as well. He and Jim couldn't have been more different from each other and still belonged to the same species, and yet . . . they'd formed an almost instant attachment to each other on that shuttle. One that grounded Jim, and kept Pavel from falling off the deep end several times.  
  
  
Despite his own admittedly contrary nature (worse, now, than it was four years ago, he can also admit), Pavel couldn't love Jim Kirk more if they were brothers.  
  
  
Also despite his well-earned reputation for being somewhat stone-hearted and disdainful, Pavel Andreievich Chekov completely understands the concept of a bosom friendship that redefines, even as it enriches both parties. That others are in fact frequently capable of the depth of emotional attachment to which he himself has fallen prey.  
  
  
And yet . . . when he walks into the Mess and sees  _them_  sitting together, laughing, he immediately turns and walks out, appetite gone, head throbbing, stomach churning . . . but his eyes are wide open.  
  
  
 _It could not_ , he thinks calmly,  _be plainer if I'd walked in on them actually fucking._  
  
  


*

  
  
That same evening, he finds himself yet again in the enviable position of staring at the back of Lieutenant McCoy's head.  
  
  
“Somethin' you--ow,  _fuck_ \--wanna . . . get off your chest, Doc?” McCoy asks breathlessly, laughing a little. He's always laughing, always happy.  
  
  
Pavel's answer is a slight pause. Then a very slightly gentler series of thrusts. His hands slips on McCoy's sweaty hip and slippery-damp cock, and he, himself, is a tense, dripping mess. He's had McCoy pinned to the hull wall of the Navigator's quarters for the better part of thirty minutes. He's already come once, groaning Pavel's name, and Pavel. . . .  
  
  
“Is Lieutenant Sulu fucking you, too, or are you merely keeping him in reserve for when you tire of me?”  
  
  
. . . is surprised  _that_  came out. Not only should he be beyond coherent speech, but it's not any of his business who else McCoy has sex with.  
  
  
Indeed, his only reply is silence.  _Long_  silence, broken only by the sound of skin smacking and sliding against skin, and the occasional grunt.  
  
  
“You're a real piece of work, you know?” McCoy finally says, almost too low to hear. He leans his head against the wall, and his fingers curl on the smooth surface once, before splaying flat again. Then he pushes back against Pavel  _hard_ , nearly shaking him loose. Meets every thrust with one of his own, until they both come at the same time.  
  
  
Of all their assignations (nine, in total) Pavel feels this is the least satisfactory. The same could probably be said for McCoy, who almost immediately shoves him away, and hobbles slowly past him--past the bed Pavel's fucked him in proximity to, but that they've never shared--and straight to his bathroom.  
  
  
“Kindly get the fuck out, Dr. Chekov,” he calls back softly, without looking over his shoulder, then the door shuts behind him.   
  
  
Stubbornly, Pavel means to wait him out, to demand an explanation and apology for such illogical, rude behavior. But eventually, no longer angry--confused, in fact, and vaguely . . . _panicked_  for some reason--he leaves, sick to death of the accusatory silence.  
  
  
He steadfastly ignores the way his head aches, his stomach churns, and his dry eyes burn and burn.  
  



	5. Seven: The Fourth Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompt chosen by strickens_girl, "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

_Nothing has changed._  
  
  
Pavel tells himself that as he runs the tri-corder slowly up and down his patient, ignoring those dark, dark eyes and the intent gaze that wavers not one iota from his cold-but-burning face.  _It's as if we never had sex, he is simply another patient and I'm nothing more than his doctor. We are both adults._  
  
  
“Vell.” He looks over the tricorder's readings--all as expected, but for slightly lower than normal B12 levels--then shuts it off. Looks McCoy in the eye and keeps his own professional mask firmly in place. “You are healthy, though I  _vill_  need to give you a B12 hypo before you leave. Then you may report to Commander Spock for your avay mission.”  
  
  
“Aye . . . sir.”  
  
  
Suppressing a sigh, Pavel searches McCoy's eyes. If there's anything in them to read, his own illiteracy is making itself felt, and he's left to flounder helplessly until McCoy clears his throat and looks down. He's smiling like always, but there's nothing humorous in it.  
  
  
“So, you gonna stick me, or what?” he asks, and for a moment, Pavel's exactly one month in the past, watching McCoy close the distance between them, peeling off his shirts . . . can feel smooth, firm flesh under his hands as he skins down trousers and underwear . . . feel the hitherto unexperienced heat and tightness of another man's body as he slides in inch by glorious, hard-won inch. . . .  
  
  
And just like that, the near-not, sort-of-erection he's had since McCoy walked into Sickbay is a full-fledged, no-doubt-about-it erection of the kind McCoy couldn't help but see.  
  
  
“I--sorry. Em--” Pavel's face goes up in painful flames, and he turns away to get the hypo, before this rapid shuttling of blood back and forth makes him pass out. But McCoy grabs his hand and pulls him back into the small cubicle. Pulls him close and leans their foreheads together for a moment before kissing him, hard and hungrily.  
  
  
Pavel wouldn't have been more stunned if McCoy'd slapped him in the face--and probably couldn't have been, in light of the past two, coldly silent weeks.  _Lonely_  weeks, in which the only, ahem, companion he'd ever known besides McCoy just didn't get the job done, anymore. Left him feeling worse than ever.  
  
  
Now, it seems, he's gone from famine to feast.  
  
  
“Let me, let me,” pleads between overwhelming, orange juice-flavored kisses, not knowing what he's pleading for until he finds himself on his knees between McCoy's legs and nuzzling the other man's erection like an affection-starved cat. Inhaling deeply and hoping he'll be allowed to taste.  
  
  
A heavy hand settles in his hair. Musses it up into the ridiculous curls Pavel mostly manages to brush and comb flat each morning. When he looks up, the warmth and humor that'd been missing from those dark eyes is present, and . . . Pavel forgets to breathe for a moment. Hadn't realized just how much he'd missed that unreserved welcome.  
  
  
McCoy's hand other hand cups his face, thumb stroking his cheek slowly.  
  
  
“I miss you, Doc,” he breathes, and that breath catches when Pavel puts his hand on McCoy's fly. “I miss you so bad--tell me it ain't just me?”  
  
  
“It ain't--I mean it's  _not_. I vant . . . I vant to suck your cock, then take you to the Mess for a burger . . . L-Leo.”  
  
  
McCoy grins slowly. “Well, now, I must say, that is the most tempting offer I've ever received. But you don't have to--”  
  
  
“No, I don't  _have to_.” Pavel turns his head and bites the pad of McCoy's thumb. Laves the bite and kisses it. Recognizes his own nervousness, but it's far surpassed by this desire he hadn't suspected: to do for McCoy what McCoy was always more than happy to do for him. And this desire has nothing to do with mere reciprocation and turn-about. “But I vant to.”  
  
  
“Nurse Chapel could walk by at any second,” McCoy murmurs, covering Pavel's hand with his own before he starts unzipping. “And you know I'm noisy as hell when I come.”  
  
  
Pavel knows. “I don't think I care.”  
  
  
McCoy's eyebrows shoot up. “You might not now, but when Chapel catches me with my pants down and you with come on your chin, then runs to tell everyone she knows. . . .”  
  
  
“Considering vhat I caught her doing vith Yeoman Rand in the medical supply room last veek, I think Christine and I understand each other perfectly, regarding discretion, and the better parts of valor,” Pavel says wryly, and McCoy's mouth drops open.  
  
  
“Chapel and  _Rand_? That little blonde piece that's always sidlin' up to the Cap'n, and--wait, stop distractin' me.” McCoy glares, but his eyes are sparkling, laughing. “Goddamn, you don't make it easy to tell you no.”  
  
  
“Then don't tell me no.” Pavel smiles, and McCoy tilts his head curiously, his grin mellowing into a smile, too. One Pavel's never seen before.  
  
  
“I was right. You  _do_  glow,” he says wonderingly, and Pavel flushes. Can't seem to stop . . . glowing . . . even as McCoy nudges him to his feet again, and kisses him. Gently, this time, and _soooo_  tenderly. It's not anything Pavel's used to, being kissed or treated tenderly, and it makes him say the first heartfelt thing that comes to mind:  
  
  
“I don't care, Leo, I don't. And I promise. I vill newer mention it again.”  
  
  
“Mention what, Doc?”  
  
  
“Your . . . relationship vith Lieutenant Sulu. If you vant to be vith him, too, I am villing to accept that.” And he means it. At least he means it in this moment. He'd mean damn near anything to have McCoy back in his . . . well, they've never shared a bed.  
  
  
Back in his  _life_. . . .  
  
  
McCoy stiffens, and not in the good way. The warm, strong arms that'd been tight around Pavel drop away and the kisses end with a frustrated sigh. “Goddamn you--”  
  
  
“No, please, I am  _serious_ , Leo. I'm villing to owerlook . . .  _him_ \--”  
  
  
“Is that so? Well, fuck you  _very_  much, Dr. Pavel. You've got a heart as big as all outer space!” Said with a sneer that Pavel hates, and doesn't understand. But he's too confused to do more than gape as McCoy shoves him back and hops off the bio-bed. “Christ, I'm such a fucking sap!”  
  
  
“Leo--” this time, Pavel grabs  _McCoy's_  arm as he stalks by, expecting to have his hand shrugged off, but it isn't. The look he receives in return, however, makes him think it was a close thing. "Vait--"  
  
  
“No, I don't think I'll be waiting. Because you . . . you really just  _can't_  keep your goddamn feet outta your mouth, can ya, Doc?” McCoy grits out, that warm look vanished like it never was. He glances down at Pavel's hand on his arm and Pavel lets go. “Thanks for the check-up.”  
  
  
Then he's gone, leaving Pavel to wonder again, what on Earth he'd done, and why no one, not even the most condescending professors or peers have ever made him feel as young, naïve, ignorant, and inadvertently  _cruel_  as Leo McCoy makes him feel.  
  
  
It's only later, after Commander Spock and his team have beamed down to the surface (after he's been locked in his office with an utterly  _killed_  pint of Saurian brandy Jim gave him as a graduation present) that Pavel realizes he never gave McCoy that B12 hypo.  
  
  



	6. Seven: The Fifth Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompts chosen by strickens_girl, “role reversal” and "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

“Sulu to McCoy.”  
  
  
Hikaru's left to stare at the faux-neon pins above the entrance of Enterprise bowling alley while Leo, moody bitch that he is lately, decides whether or not to answer. It's been weeks of this brooding martyr crap and Hikaru is heartily sick of it. “McCoy.”  
  
  
“Well, well, it lives. Where  _are_  you, you lazy, emo fuck? It's a  _League_  Night!  _League_!” And sure enough, in the alley, he can see Lieutenant Riley trying to con Uhura into letting him roll first.  
  
  
Not on . . . not. Fucking.  _On_.  
  
  
Because granted, Uhura's the Eliot Ness of the Leauge, completely Untouchable, but still. Hikaru, as the opposing captain and traveler along the high road . . . wants to lob his bag, ball and all, at Riley's square, shanty-singing head. “Where the fuck are you?”  
  
  
“Where the fuck do you think?” Leo grumbles, and Hikaru takes several deep, and not-at-all-calming deep breaths. Turns away from the alley and tries to clear his mind.  
  
  
“My sincere hope, dearest friend, is that you're on your way to the goddamn bowling alley--” a derisive snort that Hikaru doesn't dignify with a response “--either that, or dragging your mopey, heart-sick ass to Sickbay with roses and a fucking apology!”  
  
  
“ _Me_  apologize! He--” Hikaru can all but hear Leo grits his teeth, and not for the first time, he wonders where his easy-going, drama-free best friend had gone, and exactly when this angsty, sarcastic stranger had taken his place. “Have fun bowling, Hikaru. Tell the team I said rah-rah. McCoy out.”  
  
  
And that's that.  
  
  
At least that's that till Hikaru barges into Leo's cave-dark quarters. But doesn't miss the way Leo's startled eyes light up until he sees who's doing the barging.  
  
  
“Oh, it's you.” He snorts and rolls onto his side. “Remind me to change my door code.”  
  
  
“What'm I, your personal organizer? Remind yourself. Lights at seventy percent!”” Hikaru drops his bag just inside the doorway and marches over to the bed. Stands over Leo's prone figure, and lets the anger draining out of him. An old bowling trick passed down from Sulu to Sulu for at least a century. It also works regarding fencing, most martial arts, and when one is losing badly at Canasta.  
  
  
But it sure gets a run for its money, now. “You know you're being ridiculous, right?”  
  
  
Leo doesn't answer, only curls up into a ball--and even if he doesn't know he's  _being_  ridiculous, he certainly  _looks_  ridiculous . . . a grown man in cartoon-y, constellation boxers, at least two days worth of stubble, and nothing else.  
  
  
Sighing, Hikaru sits next to his best friend and pats his shoulder. “How long's it been since you talked to him? Three weeks?”  
  
  
“Three weeks, two days, fourteen hours, and some-odd minutes. Not that I've been keepin' track.”  
  
  
“Of course not.” Hikaru rolls his eyes and squeezes Leo's shoulder. “You're an idiot, you know.”  
  
  
“And you're a douchebag--ow! Alright, now!” Leo rolls away, to the other side of the bed and jumps to his feet. Hikaru has to lunge across the bed to do it, expend energy in a holo-drama sort of roll-bounce, but he lands another two jabs to Leo's side and gets him in a head-lock. Not an easy thing, since Leo's got almost five inches on him.  
  
  
“That's two for flinching, McCoy, and you're staring down the barrel of a noogie!”  
  
  
“Asshole! Lemme go! I can't  _breathe_!”  
  
  
“Good! Maybe when you pass out, I'll drag your ass to Sickbay, then!”  
  
  
Leo growls, and crouches forward suddenly, tugging on Hikaru's arms at the same time. Hikaru has a split second in which to think,  _well, fuck_ , and then the room goes topsy turvy.  
  
  
He  _oof_ s as he lands jarringly on the bed. . . .  
  
  
By the time the room stops trying to fling his brain around in his skull, Leo's sitting next to him, bitching about his side and his neck, and bruising. Hikaru scoffs. “At least you didn't get brought down by a basic Judo-throw . . . damn, I'm actually kinda proud of you. You always sucked at defense.”  
  
  
“What can I say? You motivate me to be all I can be.” Leo smacks him on the forehead, but Hikaru's too winded to do more than make a vaguely protesting groan. “Now get outta my room, Hikaru.”  
  
  
“Why, so you can mope some more?”  _Not to mention wreck League Night_ , Hikaru doesn't add. Leo's a more-than-decent bowler, but he has all the ambition and competitive spirit of a tree sloth. And from the way his weird little relationship with Dr. Jailbait is going, he's also a self-defeating masochist. “Why don't you just try telling him the truth?”  
  
  
“And what would that be?”  
  
  
“That as flattering as his jealousy is, it's totally misplaced since you and I aren't sleeping together and never were? That you fell in love with him, and then discovered he can't read your mind, and tell you everything you wanna hear, when you wanna hear it? So instead of being proactive, you're wallowing in self-pity and misery, incidentally letting the closest thing you've ever had to a relationship stagnate before it even has a chance to  _be_  anything? That despite the fact that  _you're_  the one who started calling him 'Dr. Jailbait', you seem to have forgotten that he's only seventeen, and thus hasn't yet read the How To Date Leo McCoy primer they oughtta give out to anything with a working dick?  _That_  truth?”  
  
  
Leo gapes at him. “I--I--”  
  
  
Hikaru sits up on his elbows. “Yes?”  
  
  
However far gone he is down his own personal rabbit-hole of righteous angst, at least Leo has the grace to look guilty before he starts getting huffy and defensive. “I don't care how inexperienced you are, asking the person you've been fucking-- _while_  you're fucking him--if he's fucking around on you is just--just--”  
  
  
“Unforgivable?” Hikaru's eyebrows shoot up, and Leo looks away, frowning.  
  
  
“No . . . not unforgivable. . . .”  
  
  
“So then why haven't you?”  
  
  
“It's not that easy!” Leo flops down next to him like a five year old throwing a tantrum. Hikaru should know--he's the oldest of four brothers, the youngest of whom turned five just before Hikaru left for the Academy.  
  
  
“Well, maybe it  _should_  be that easy.” He glowers over at Leo till Leo finally serves that glower right back at him. Huh. He didn't used to be so good at that sort of face. But then, he's been picking up all sorts of grouchy habits from Dr. Jailbait. “You're dating--sleeping with--serial-fucking-- _whatever_ , someone who was in med school before puberty hit. Who graduated from Starfleet before he should've graduated from high school. In all likelihood, you're the first guy he's  _ever_  been with. In every sense of the word.”  
  
  
Now that angry gaze falters and Leo sighs. “I know that. Don't you think I know that?”  
  
  
“Good! So get past the fact that since he hasn't dated and/or traded bodily fluids with thousands of guys, like you have--”  
  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
  
“No, but I'm probably the only guy you  _haven't_.” Hikaru snorts. “Get past the fact that he's completely inexperienced, and has no fucking clue what he's doing. That he  _will_  make many more mistakes that hurt at least as bad as this one did. Get over that, and get over yourself, Leo, before it's too late. Tell him the truth, apologize, and let him apologize to you. Have hours worth of make-up sex--”  
  
  
“I  _do_  miss gettin' laid regularly,” Leo murmurs wistfully, and Hikaru rolls his eyes again. “I mean did I tell you how Christing  _big_  he is--?”  
  
  
“Several times too many,” Hikaru mutters, smacking down Leo's big-fish hands. He really doesn't want any visual aides. He's on roster for the next away mission, which means a routine physical before-hand. As it is he's going to have a hard time looking lanky, unassuming Dr. Jail-- _Dr. Chekov_  in those cold blue eyes.  
  
  
(And it's  _always_  hard not to snicker at the way he talks:  _wessels_  this, and  _weektor_  that . . . hella-ass-balls  _hilarious_. Especially when he storms onto the Bridge to bitch at Kirk or Spock about some damn thing or other.)  
  
  
“. . . I mean, not  _state fair sideshow_  big, but--and I'm not a size queen, or anything, but Jesus _wept_  . . . he's work of goddamn  _art_.”  
  
  
“Uh-huh. Fascinating.”  
  
  
“And he wields that thing like it's fucking Excalibur, I mean . . . usually guys with big dicks don't bother with anything  _like_  technique, but he's a natural. I'da never known he was a virgin, except I had to teach him to kiss . . . but he's a natural with his tongue, too, so--”  
  
  
“Okay!” Hikaru pushes himself upright, then to his feet. That wistful look is still there, but Leo's smile says at least half that detail was his way of getting back at Hikaru. “Not that I don't love being regaled with strange tales of your jailbait boyfriend's magical, Excalibur-dick and super-amazing tongue, but . . . League Night, Skippy: in or out?”  
  
  
“Out, sorry.” And now, he does look sincerely apologetic. “My heart's not in it? I bowl for shit. Sorry. Are you stuck?”  
  
  
“Meh.” Hikaru waves a dismissive hand, crosses the room and retrieves his bowling bag. Inside, Lilac Lightning sleeps soundly, waiting her turn to massacre some pins. And Riley's foot, if the McBraggart isn't careful. “I can get Joey Tormolen to pinch-hit. He's a solid bowler--attention span of stoned gnat, but once he focuses . . . yeah, he'll do. But you--” he levels another glare at Leo, who simply cracks a smile. “--you'd better go fix this before some other size-queen masochist strikes gold in your mine.”  
  
  
Leo shudders theatrically. “Most disturbing mixed metaphor  _ever_."  
  
  
"Go talk to him, Leo." The door whooshes soundlessly open, and Hikaru steps out into the corridor, nearly knocking Ensign Coe on her ass as she hurries by. He mumbles an apology she doesn't even slow down to hear. "Talk to him tonight."  
  
  
"I make you no promises! Hey, throw a strike in my name, willya?” he calls as the door to his quarters closes.  
  
  
Mind already on how he'll make up for the loss of his best roller--after himself, of course--Hikaru doesn't make Leo any promises either.


	7. Seven: The Sixth Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompts chosen by strickens_girl, “role reversal” and "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

Jim pokes his head into the CMO's office. As always, even well after his shift, Pavel is sitting in a mostly dark room, only the glow of the monitor and the equivalent of a night-light to see by. His face is (also as always) blankly intense. Or intensely blank, Jim honestly can't decide which. “Hey! You busy?”  
  
  
“Incredibly.” A brief pause as Pavel almost visibly switches gears and divides his attention. “Go 'vay.”  
  
  
But of course, Jim doesn't  _go 'vay_. Fearing neither words, tone, nor mood, Jim always ventures where angels and even Nurse Chapel fear to tread. He does so now, striding into the CMO's office and dragging the other of the rooms two chairs around to Pavel's side of the desk. He sits, and for a few minutes watches the monitor. It's at least that long before he realizes that this isn't some damn report (which Pavel always types up, and  _always_  in freaking Russian, full Cyrillic alphabet, despite being fluent in written Standard like everyone else)  
  
  
“What  _is_  that thing?” he finally asks, torn between amusement and horror.  
  
  
“A game.”  
  
  
“Yeah, I know it's a game, Pavel--one that you're playing in your  _office_ , even though your shift is over, and you should be, oh, I don't know, having an actual  _life_  or getting actual  _sleep_ \--but it looks freaking . . .  _ancient_.”  
  
  
“Three hundred-plus years,” Pavel confirms. “Is called 'Minesveeper'.”  
  
  
“Oh, my God, you're the least cool person I've ever met, and I've met a lot of people. And--Jesus, this thing is--it's two-dee, isn't it?”  
  
  
“Only barely.”  
  
  
“Fuck-a-duck!” Jim exclaims, leaning low on the desk and squinting. Just looking at it makes his brain hurt and his eyes sting . . . like watching someone kick a bunny. “Fuck-a-duck,”he says again, and laughs. “This is proof positive that you need to start getting laid again.”  
  
  
On the screen, there's a craptacular hail of two-dee pyrotechnics. Jim whistles and squints at the words that appear on screen, even though his brain balks at the flat graphics and use of . . . holy crow,  _Ye Olde Englishe_ , instead of Standard.  
  
  
“Aw, shit. Did you just . . . game-over, or something?”  
  
  
Pavel puts down the old-fashioned controller--a gift from Admiral Pike, and to this day, neither Jim nor Pavel has any idea how the man even knew such a thing would be appreciated--and turns to face his best and only friend. His gaze is direct, but not especially alert: pin-prick pupils in faded-denim irises, surrounded by an irritated sea of red. He looks like someone sleep-walking through his days, lately.   
  
  
 _Hell, he probably is,_  Jim thinks worriedly, struggling not to show that worry. Pavel hates being worried over and mothered. “Vhat did you vant, Jim.”  
  
  
Jim grins--the dashing one that's cost dozens, if not hundreds their hearts. The fact that it never has and probably never will move Pavel is comforting. Sort of like gravity: it doesn't ever work in Jim's favor, but it's nice to have as a Universal Constant. “I want you to come to the officer's lounge with me tonight, Pavel. Right now, in fact.”  
  
  
Pavel quirks an eyebrow, and a flash of the sense of humor he claims not to have surfaces from blankly watchful depths. “Yes. I can see vhere spending my ewening surrounded by people drinking alcohol vhen I can't vould be great fun. How could I possibly turn down such an offer. . . ? Vait, let me try . . .  _nnnn-noooo_  . . . huh, easier than I thought,” he deadpans.  
  
  
“Haha, very funny, snark-ass.” Jim punches his arm lightly, and Pavel smiles, that quirky little half-smile that he reserves for Jim. “You know good and well that age-of-majority bullshit doesn't count regarding you. Not on my ship, or any other ship in the Fleet, I'll bet. If you're old enough to reattach my fucking foot--” that intrepid, Jim Kirk-gaze, as Pavel calls it “--you're old enough to drink, fuck, and smoke 'em if ya got 'em.”  
  
  
“Vell, thanks for the permission, Keptin, but--”  
  
  
“You're very welcome. I take it that means you're coming with me?”  
  
  
Pavel snorts and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. There are greyish-blue circles around them. He looks both younger and older than he actually is. “You can take it to mean anything you like, Jim, but I think I'll spend my ewening in a vay more suited to me.”  
  
  
“Just what I was getting to,” Jim stands up, and paces to the door and back. Takes the plunge he's been putting off for weeks. “About what happened between you and Leo McCoy, Pasha--”  
  
  
“ _That_  is not a discussion ve vill be having, and  _do not_  call me that.  _Jimmy_.” That blank look has been replaced by something else. Something stubborn and wounded-animal angry.  
  
  
He and Jim glare at each other. And glare. And glare some more. Till Pavel looks away, but Jim isn't one to celebrate hollow victories. Nor is he one to take no for an answer. It's a trait he and Pavel share in near-equal measure. “Okay, I'm addressing you not as your friend now, but as your  _Captain_ : I want my chief medical officer, and my navigator back.”  
  
  
“As far as I am avare, both I, and Lieutenant McCoy, are still serving aboard--” Pavel starts in prim, pissy tones. Jim cuts him off with a gesture.  
  
  
“You know what I mean, Dr. Chekov. Don't play the Literal Game with me. I want my grouchy, quick-witted, ball-buster of a CMO back, and I want my happy-go-lucky, easy-going, well-shucks-y'all navigator back. I'm  _sick_  of the apathetic shambles you're turning into, and I'm _damned_  sick of the moody, snarling, ornery bastard that's taken McCoy's place for the past six weeks!”  
  
  
“Just because you're having behavioral issues vith a member of  _your_  Bridge crew, doesn't mean _I_  have anything to do vith it!” Pavel huffs stiffly. Jim just gapes at him as if he's gone insane. He certainly  _looks_  the part, the normally brush-tamed curls standing out around his face in a fuzzy, frazzled-looking corona.  
  
  
“Oh, gimme a break! The two weeks you guys were together, I didn't see McCoy's feet touch the ground  _once_ \--all he did was grin and walk funny, like walking funny was a badge of honor, or something. And you--were about as up-tempo as I've ever seen. You were  _pleasant_  to Spock. You. Pleasant.  _Spock_.  
  
  
“Then, all of a sudden, McCoy turned into a raging asshole and you turned into a damn  _hermit_! You don't come to the Bridge anymore unless you absolutely  _have_  to, and when you do, you keep one foot on the turbo-lift. You look like you haven't slept in a month, which I can only assume means your insomnia's back. You shuffle around Sickbay like a zombie--hell, your staff's half-afraid you're having some kinda break with reality--but you're telling me these are all unrelated things?”  
  
  
Pavel rubs his eyes and keeps his hands there. “No. I'm telling you these are all things that are none of you business.”  
  
  
“It's my business when it affects members of my crew, and when it affects my best friend. Pavel . . . you gotta talk to me,” Jim says softly, tempted to cross the room and just put his arm around Pavel. But until this flash-in-the-pan fuck-fest with McCoy, the last thing Pavel tolerated, after being mothered, was prolonged physical contact.  
  
  
(“Do not, please. Is distracting,” he'd said in response to the first time Jim'd ever tried to sling an arm around him. A tallish, but gantry thin fourteen year old with big eyes, a too-serious face and the thickest accent Jim'd ever heard on a human, Pavel Chekov had brushed that friendly arm away like it was a dead insect. “I am not tolerating beeing distracted.”)  
  
  
So Jim merely stands there, and watches Pavel . . . suffer? Meditate? Count sheep? Make pretty colors on the backs of his eyelids? It's hard to tell just now, but Jim rather thinks it's that first one.  
  
  
“Я не знаю, что я сделал,” Pavel whispers, laughing a little. It's a miserable, tired sound. “Но каковы бы ни это, мне очень жаль. Мне очень жаль. Лев. . . .”  
  
  
Even after three and more years of friendship, Jim still can't make heads or tales of Russian, but that weary, unhappy tone comes across clearly. He closes the distance between he and Pavel, and sits again, hand hovering first near knee, then near shoulder. “Hey, when I said talk to me, I meant in Standard, 'Kay, buddy? C'mon.” He puts his hand on Pavel's shoulder, and it doesn't get shrugged or swatted away after a few seconds. Or even a minute. But Pavel still won't put his hands down.  
  
  
Jim's certain he's either crying, or trying his damnedest not to.  
  
  
“Jeez, Pavel. You know keeping this bottled in isn't gonna make it better.”  
  
  
“Бесполезно психоаналитический бум.”  
  
  
“Hey, what'd you say about my mother, Ruskie?”  
  
  
Usually, that's worth a sarcastic snort--used to be worth a giggle, when Pavel was younger--but now, it's not even worth an irritated glance, and roll of those empty eyes.  
  
  
Serious business. More serious than Jim'd thought, anyway. Maybe this thing between Pavel and McCoy had been about more than two guys getting it wherever they could. Maybe it's something deeper than that. God knows Pavel's long overdue for some kind of sexual-romantic involvement with  _someone_. Overdue for all sorts of firsts that most people have had by fifteen, forget seventeen: first date, first dance, first kiss, first  _first_. . . .  
  
  
 _Enter Leo "Man-Whore Extraordinaire" McCoy: the guy who cut a swathe through a third of the male cadets on campus, and even some of the brass. I'm pretty sure he got around even more than_ I _did. Probably the worst person to have a first_ anything _with, especially if you're as uptight as Pavel is, only . . . it seems like McCoy's in just as deep, from the state of him. And given his track record,_ he's _probably never gotten as far as a last name when it comes to the people he sleeps with. Along comes innocent, sincere, inexperienced Pavel, right under McCoy's radar, and . . . recipe for disaster. It's a dead-heat race as to which of them is stubborner, stupider, prouder, and luckier at cards. . . .  
  
  
. . . crap. Fuck. I'm too old for this. And too shallow to be _ anyone _'s love-guru._  
  
  
Jim kneels in front of Pavel and tries to pull his hands away from his eyes. Doesn't get the fight he expects, and Pavel's hands are ice cold. The eyes that'd been under them are bone dry, but still very red, and blink at him blearily. "Please talk to me, kiddo."  
  
  
“Get up,” Pavel says evenly enough, his voice perhaps a tad more modulated than usual. But his Adam's apple bobs like he's fighting not to add something else. But when Jim doesn't move, he makes an impatient, annoyed sound. “I said  _up._  Unless you plan on . . . sucking my dick and taking me to the Mess aftervard, just . . . up. Please.”  
  
  
“Suck your-- _what_ \--?” Jim starts, confused--not to mention blushing. As far as he knows, Pavel never uses non-clinical terms for anatomy or bodily functions--but Pavel pulls his hands away and scoots his chair back a little, and angling it back toward the monitor.  
  
  
Jim takes a deep, discomfited breath, and makes a very conscious decision to simply . . .  _not go there._  Tries to reboot the conversation. "Look, I know this is something you're not comfortable discussing, but the fact is, you  _need_ \--"  
  
  
“ _Get up_ , Jim. Please. And get out, vhile you're at it." Pavel picks up the controller again, fingers clenching around it briefly. "I have vork to catch up on.”  
  
  
This, too, is familiar from their first year at the Academy. During the worst of the harassment and condescension from his peers, and even some of his teachers, Pavel would come back to their room, silent and ashen-faced. He'd never talk to Jim about what was going on, even when Jim kept at him. If it wasn't for Pike's initial intervention, Pavel would've eventually washed out from the stress. Or had a nervous breakdown.   
  
  
If that's what he's headed toward now . . . Jim sighs and gets to his feet. Crosses his arms and watches Pavel stare resolutely at the screen. A vein in his temple, throbbing steadily, belies that mask of stone-faced indifference. “If you won't talk to  _me_  about it, fine. But talk to McCoy, okay? Whatever he's done to you, or you've done to him . . . it  _can_  be resolved and gotten over, I promise you. It may not be easy, but it can be fixed.”  
  
  
“Only if both parties vant to, yes?” Pavel glances up at him, his eyes shining, like they're shrink-wrapped in tears. Hurting, and lost, and  _young_. But he blinks, and the shine is gone, and his eyes are once again as transparent as blue lead. “Leo . . . Lieutenant McCoy has made it qvite plain that he doesn't vant to 'fix it', as you say. I have accepted that. I am attempting to move on. And vhile I appreciate your concern, you're simply making this situation more . . . difficult by pressing the matter.  
  
  
“I vill not discuss it any further. Even if there  _vere_  anything to discuss, it vould be none of your business.”  
  
  
“Alright, then." Jim didn't want to have to do this--isn't even sure he'd even be able to follow through on such a threat (at least not in this case) but he doesn't know what, if anything else, there is  _to_  do. Pike isn't here to shake some sense into either Pavel or McCoy, and even if he were shipboard, Pike isn't the Captain. This personnel problem is entirely Jim's to diffuse.  
  
  
And push comes to shove, between McCoy's still sterling navigational skills, and the inevitable decline in quality of Pavel's work, once the insomnia digs in deep. . . . "As your best friend, I'll let it go. But as your Captain, Dr. Chekov, if this doesn't get resolved soon, I'll resolve it myself by having one of you reassigned. Are we on the same page?”  
  
  
"Aye, Keptin." Another lead-eyed glance, this one absently ponderous. “Maybe that vould be best. I ask only that instead of having me reassigned, should you see the need, that you allow me the option of reqvesting a transfer. It . . . vill look better on my record.”  
  
  
Pavel faces the monitor, wiggles the joystick and presses the left of two small red buttons. The  **YOU LOSE!**  (Jim's pretty sure that's what it says) vanishes, and  **ROUND ONE!**  takes its place.  
  
  
In seconds, it's as if Jim's already left. So he leaves.  
  



	8. Seven: The Seventh Deadly Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the slashthedrabble prompts chosen by strickens_girl, “role reversal” and "seven deadly sins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything.  
> Notes: See "Intense Dislike" for notes/warnings.

“Jesus wept, I didn't even know anyone still knew  _how_  to type!”  
  
  
Pavel's fingers hesitate momentarily, then keep going. Autopilot is a wonderful thing. A few moments to regain his stride, and he  _hmms_ , but doesn't look up from the day's medical logs. He finds it nearly impossible to keep be both clear and concise while dictating, so he's taken to typing out the CMO's logs using the desk's virtual keyboard.  
  
  
It's faster and more efficient, and Pavel Chekov is nothing, if not efficient. “Now, you know, Lieutenant. And you must only use this newfound knowledge for good.”  
  
  
McCoy laughs, and even though he sounds more tired than amused, the room actually seems to brighten. Not that that would be terribly difficult. As is his custom after his shift has officially ended, he has the lights off, except for the monitor, backlit keyboard, and a small “night-light” panel near his office door that's set to forty percent. More than bright enough to avoid barking one's shins, more than bright enough that, were he to look up, he'd see the face that haunts his mind's eye regardless of lighting.  
  
  
“How may I help you? Do you have more qvestions about Mr. Sulu's condition, or treatment?”  
  
  
“Well, no, that wasn't what I . . . I mean . . . he's, ah, really alright, right? You didn't leave anything out before?”  
  
  
That note of restrained worry finally stops Pavel's fingers, and he looks up at McCoy. Squints a little, wondering if he needs corrective surgery for his eyes, or if it's just all the stimulants making everything seem to blur at the edges. Either way, poor eyesight  _does_  run in his family, and it's only a matter of time, not of dodging genetic bullets. “I told you ewerything. He . . . is as alright as can be expected, under the circumstance. And I'm certain he vill get better. He is a wery determined patient, and I am a wery determined doctor. I vill be honest . . . he's not out of the voods yet, but he'll soon be back to finding new, more inwentive vays to get himself killed, yes?”  
  
  
“Yeah, that's . . . I'm--thank you, Doc.” McCoy almost smiles, but can't quite seem to do it. His face looks drawn and haggard. Older.  
  
  
If anyone  _should_  look that way over Hikaru Sulu is, it's his. . . .   
  
  
That's not a thought that wants finishing, so Pavel doesn't. He focuses on his report again, or tries to. After staring blankly at his monitor for most of a minute, while McCoy stares at him, Pavel gives it up as a bad job and leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing the head-rest was a pillow. Not that he'd be able to sleep even if it was. “I've informed Sickbay personnel that you can wisit Mr. Sulu vhenever you like, since I imagine there'll be no budging you out of the Sickbay vhen you're not on shift.”  
  
  
“You imagine correctly,” McCoy acknowledges, smiling. Pavel's stomach churns and churns, and he has to look away again. Back at the log, which, on first glance, makes absolutely no sense to him. He doubts it will, till well after McCoy goes back to sitting vigil. “So how fast a typist're you, anyway?”  
  
  
“Em. Vhy do you you think I've timed myself?” That wry silence is as knowing as it is amused, and Pavel clears his throat. “I average approximately ninety vords per minute. Over vone hundred if vhat I'm typing reqvires less, em . . . thought or care.”  
  
  
“And does what you're doing now require thought and care?” McCoy against the doorway lintel and crosses his arms like a man prepared to stay awhile. ”Which is my genteel and tactful way of askin' if I'm interruptin' somethin' important?”  
  
  
“I'm, em, finishing out the day's medical logs, but no, you're not interrupting. This I can do on autopilot, so if you have other qvestions regarding Mr. Sulu's treatment, please. Ask them.” And mentioning the Lieutenant's treatment has the benefit of clicking the autopilot that is his over-stimulated brain back on. He's typing again, watching the computer's blocky, utilitarian Cyrillic fill the report field with no real idea of what he's typing, only that it's a continuation of what he'd started--a medical stream-of-thought.  
  
  
Watching letters march squarely across the screen, for a moment, he misses his mother keenly. She'd begun teaching him to write in the old way before he'd learned to talk (and well before she bothered teaching him the barbaric, graceless slashes that are written Standard). Her Cyrillic was always strongly, and beautifully drawn, the handwritten letters she used to send him during his first year in the Academy worthy of framing, and if he'd known then what he knows now, he would have. Framed every single one and locked them all in a vault--  
  
  
“So . . . Hikaru says I'm bein' an idiot.”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Mind catapulted back to the present, Pavel frowns and deletes 'идиот'. Replaces it with 'гриппа' (since it's the Bolian 'Flu' Yeoman Deregibus has contracted, and  _not_  the Bolian 'Idiot'), and divides his attention roughly in half. “That is highly unlikely, Lieutenant, since he's currently in a coma that I von't be rousing him from for at least the next three days.”  
  
  
“Actually, he told me I was bein' an idiot a week ago. It's, uh, only now that I'm startin' to realize . . . he was right.”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Pavel's slipped completely back in that autopilot mini-zone, the one that's only for updating his logs, ordering supplies, and any other busy-work. He's actually managed to forget McCoy's presence altogether when a warm hand covers his own, and he nearly flies out of his skin--голенььььььь marches across the screen. He finds himself blinking up into McCoy's eyes, and for awhile, all they do is look at each other.  
  
  
Insomnia aside, tenuous grasp on waking reality aside, Pavel is still mildly stunned to realize he's hard, and has been getting that way since McCoy first spoke.  
  
  
“I, uh, didn't mean to startle you, but I said your name a couple of times and y'didn't seem to hear me.” Dark eyes search his own, a thousand questions in them, none of which Pavel has the correct answers to. All he knows is that when McCoy licks his lips, for a moment he, Pavel, ceases to exist, and there is simply  _want_ , so bright and dark and deep, that he can see himself lunging for McCoy like some Pon Farr-crazed Vulcan and just . . . but he doesn't. What he  _does_ , is take a deep calming breath that's really only one of those things.  
  
  
“Jesus, Doc, are you okay?” McCoy's fingers brush his cheek, and Pavel turns his face away, shaken to his core and almost disoriented with how little he's moved on. “Sorry, I--”  
  
  
“It's, em, I who should apologize for ignoring you.” Pavel can't seem to look back up. Is enough of a masochist that he can't even ask McCoy to leave him to his work. Anything just to have him in some small way, for some small while. “I'm used to being alone vhen I write, and there are a least tvice as many different stimulants in my system as there should be, making me jumpy. And it's been a long day--”  
  
  
“It's okay, you don't have to explain it to me. I actually think I'm starting to get it. Get  _you_ ,” McCoy amends. That hand covers Pavel's again, then doesn't leave. McCoy sits on the edge of the desk with a soft sigh and Pavel wants, absurdly enough to pull him closer. Lay his head in McCoy's lap and  _rest_. Let McCoy stroke his hair, and say any old nonsense in his strange, lovely accent.  
  
  
“I wanted to thank you again. For everything you've done--and don't think I don't know it's a miracle he didn't die dirt-side, let alone that he made it through surgery okay. And that it's you that kept him from shufflin' loose the mortal coil. No matter how long I live, I will  _never_ \--” McCoy squeezes his hand hard “--never be able to thank you adequately for what you've done, Pavel.”  
  
  
It's the sort of thing that Pavel should like to hear. And part of him does--part of him loves being recognized for the let's-not-mince-words- _brilliant_  doctor that he is. But there's a larger part that's feeling something quite different in this instance. This larger part has been doing its level best to swallow him down its universe-sized maw for weeks, now. This larger part has necessitated that Pavel shuffle through most of his days, and his sleepless (but chemically wired and professionally productive) nights on autopilot, if only so that he doesn't lose hours to wondering if he completed a task, and on finding it done, trying futilely to remember how many times his autopilot let him do it.  
  
  
Or fewer, but no less disconcerting hours wondering what he did wrong, and why,  _why_  McCoy wouldn't even speak to him long enough to let him make amends.  
  
  
Or simply just  _tell_  him what he keeps doing so wrong so he can correct it--but that's a starship that's already gone to Warp.  
  
  
He runs his hand over his hair. Doesn't even care that it probably looks ridiculous by now. He honestly can't even remember the last time he did anything to it besides wash and run nervous fingers through it (with increasing difficulty). “I vas only doing my job, Leo--I mean Lieutenant McCoy.”  
  
  
McCoy's eyebrows quirk up in that contrary-yet-sexy way that makes Pavel want to kiss him breathless. “ _Is_  that all you were doing, Doc?”  
  
  
Pavel shakes his head. It's increasingly difficult to think rationally, lately, but especially when McCoy is so near, yet . . . so damn  _far_. He clenches his hands on the armrests of the chair. “I don't know vhat you vant me to say. Vhat I did, vas . . . I did my job, and somehow . . . I couldn't ewen  _tell_  you how, he lived--he barely had enough blood left for me to clone more of. So shall I be perfectly honest vith you? He should be dead. I vas kneeling in  _red mud_ , Leo, disruptor wounds reopening as soon as I closed them because they vouldn't clot properly. There vas more organ failure than organs, and--I vas vatching my hands move so fast and so slow at the same time, listening to myself give orders at . . . whoever beamed down vith me . . . and all I could think vas: 'this is not enough. He vill die. I am responsible for the death of the man Leo loves.'”  
  
  
McCoy shakes his head, his dark eyes angry. “That's not--Jesus, Doc--”  
  
  
Pavel laughs wearily, feeling every bit as helpless as he'd felt fourteen hours ago. He hasn't had a full night's sleep in almost three weeks. But a lot of the past day was spent deep in the  _Zone_  he slips into during medical emergencies . . . that completely  _awake_  place where everything is sharp and bright and immediate, and split seconds are eternities in which to explore every possibility.  
  
  
Between the Zone and the probably unwise amount of artificial stimulants in his system, time is rather like taffy. Stretches and bunches according to its own laws and rationale. “There's a perfect blank spot in my memory of the minutes betveen realizing nothing I did vould be enough, and . . . stepping off the transporter pad vith Mr. Sulu on the gurney. His witals veren't steady, but he vas still alive. I didn't know how . . . I  _still_  don't know.  
  
  
“I  _do_  know that he died tvice on the operating table, and ve vere able to bring him back both times. I remember that clearly, and could go into as much detail as you'd like. But for a play-by-play of vhat happened on-planet, you'll have to ask somevone else. I am sorry.”  
  
  
“Ain't a  _damned_  thing to be sorry for.” McCoy still sounds angry, but that large, comforting hand leaves Pavel's and reaches out to brush his cheek again with impossibly tender fingers. It feels so nice that he wants more than anything to lean into it. But he doesn't. He doesn't lean away either, damned, he supposes, by his own vacillations. “You made a miracle happen, and I ain't about to  _qvestion_  your technique, Dr. Pavel, or critique ya on how you put my dyin' friend back together with nothin' but talent and sheer will!”  
  
  
“But  _someone_  should, Leo! I have no idea vhat I did, can't even document it, so that it might be repeated, if necessary. And vhat if it had gone the other vay?” Pavel forces himself to hold McCoy's gaze. “Vhat if the Lieutenant had died? Vhat if it vas a mistake  _that I'd made_  that killed him? A mistake I vould go on to repeat and repeat. Vhat if--”  
  
  
“You have the most expressive, kissable mouth,” McCoy says, apropos of nothing--McCoy is, Pavel realizes, the least logical person he's ever met. Including Jim Kirk--but he has the strangest look on his face as he tilts Pavel's face up a little. Runs his thumb along Pavel's lower lip. “Ain'tcha even gonna ask why Hikaru called me an idiot?”  
  
  
Fighting and losing the battle to turn away--to even keep his eyes open--Pavel wonders if that pathetic, yearning noise is actually coming from his own throat. It must be, since it stops the moment he starts speaking. “I . . . I assumed that had you vanted me to know, you vould have told me.”  
  
  
“And we all know what they say about assumptions. . . .” McCoy laughs a little, and those fingers are drifting slowly down to Pavel's throat, lingering at his pulse. And then he does something Pavel was certain would  _never_  be done again, at least in regards to himself: he insinuates himself between Pavel and the desk, and between Pavel's right leg and his left, when they automatically fall open. Leans his arms on either thigh and looks up at Pavel soberly.  
  
  
“I'm an idiot, because most of the time, I forget how young you are,” he whispers guiltily. “I forget that some of this--maybe  _all_  of this thing between us is new to you, and that you don't always know what to say, or what to think, or what  _I'm_  thinkin'. Might not know if you were _seventy_ , moody as I can be, lately. . . .  
  
  
“I forget all that sometimes, Doc, and I need to apologize to you. For bein' too proud to get off my high horse and set the record straight about me and Hikaru. You picked the absolute  _wrong_ time to make a completely unfounded accusation, and made it in  _the most_  insultin' manner possible. And it hurt like  _hell_ , comin' from you.” McCoy sighs, and lays his head on Pavel's right knee. “Every time I thought about it, it seemed like it hurt a little more. I got a little more angry, till all I wanted was to make you hurt like I hurt. And if I could make you hurt enough, we'd be even, and I'd feel better and you'd be sorry that you'd hurt me, and . . . I dunno. It was convoluted and stupid. I never felt like we were even, and hurtin' you didn't ever make me feel better, only worse. And I wanted to hurt you for that, too.”  
  
  
Confused, Pavel puts his hand on straight, dark hair and McCoy shifts a bit closer. “I . . . don't understand. I mean--I understand that I hurt you, and for that I am sorry. But the rest. . . .”  
  
  
McCoy snorts. “'Course you wouldn't understand. It's a special kinda logic. The kind that only makes sense to a person workin' day and night to justify to themselves what's basically an immature hissy fit.” He looks up, and in the light from the monitor he is vital, and electric. “I just need to apologize. You made a mistake--an understandable one, given my track record. And instead of working to resolve the problem, I compounded it. Made us both miserable for no good reason. Over a mistake.”  
  
  
“I vas mistaken?” Pavel says slowly, his tired brain latching onto the one thing that makes sense--that he  _wants_  to make sense. “You are  _not_  in a romantic relationship vith the Lieutenant?”  
  
  
“No, I'm not.” McCoy smiles and Pavel tries to return it, but it all he can do is breathe in and out, fast and deep, like a man who's been running some nightmarish marathon and is finally, finally allowed to stop. It's relief so great there are tears welling in his eyes, then dripping down his cheeks and nose. He knows that if he closes his eyes and casts his mind back to every interaction between McCoy and Sulu that he's ever seen--if he replaces them with himself and Jim, what was even a few minutes ago as obvious and plain as the nose on his face, is neither. Is, in retrospect free from his own monstrous insecurity . . . a hypothesis so flawed as to be laughable to anyone with eyes.  
  
  
Had he just thought McCoy was the least logical person he'd ever met? Pavel shakes his head. He may not have a sense of humor, but he can appreciate irony. Especially when it's this layered. _We are such fools,_  he thinks, and it's a strangely freeing, joyous thought because:  _we are both quite well-matched._  
  
  
“It vas like I couldn't breathe or speak or think vhen I saw you vith him,” he admits, realizing he's been doing nothing but staring and staring into McCoy's unusually serious dark eyes. His _beautiful_  eyes. “I vas so  _angry_ , so--”  
  
  
“Jealous?”   
  
  
Pavel nods, though he'd been about to say  _scared_. He supposes all three emotions boil down to the same thing, in this case. There've already been too many silly misunderstanding between them for Pavel to nit-pick, especially when McCoy is wiping his tears away and it feels . . . better than almost anything. “Yeah, I kinda guessed. Rationally, I knew jealousy wouldn't have been an issue at all if whatever it is we have didn't mean somethin' to you. Just like I wouldn't have turned angst into high art if I wasn't so gone on you.  
  
  
“So. I'm only gonna say this once, Doc, and you'd better perk up your ears: I've never in my life so much as  _flirted_  with Hikaru Sulu, let alone kissed him, or let him fuck me. Even if I'd wanted to-- _which I haven't_ \--Hikaru's as straight as a ruled edge. Now, all of that aside,” McCoy rolls Pavel's chair back till it hits the wall, then stands up. “All that aside, I'm old-fashioned when it comes to you and me, by which I mean I'm with you, Pavel. I'm  _with. You_. No one else . . . only you.”  
  
  
Pavel opens his mouth to says something (he doesn't know what) and all that comes out is: “Oh. Okay.”  
  
  
McCoy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't seem particularly annoyed. Just uncertain. More uncertain that Pavel's ever seen him. “I think this is the part where you say it back, Doc. If you feel it, I mean. I know I've done the lion's share of talkin', and even after what I said, I'm still stupid enough to just  _assume_  you and I want the same thing--”  
  
  
“Ve do.” Pavel nods once. Smiles, and this time it stretches from ear to ear, it feels like. His brain has entered some kind of stand-by mode, a little orange light blinking behind his eyes. The autopilot has gone to bed, for the moment. “Each other. And nobody else.”  
  
  
“Well. Yeah.” McCoy grins almost shyly, then clears his throat and nudging Pavel's feet. It takes a few moments, but Pavel gets the idea and closes his legs. When he does, McCoy kneels on the chair and straddles them, his hands braced on the wall then on Pavel's shoulders for balance.  
  
  
It's a tight fit, all told, since the chair wasn't made for this, but Pavel's not complaining. Not when McCoy--when  _Leo_ 's kissing him in that desperately yielding way that means:  _I miss you. Tell me it ain't just me?_  
  
  
 _It ain't_ , Pavel reassures him via slow, intent kisses. Eventually he abandons the armrests for Leo's thighs, then his waist, then his ass. He squeezes and kneads. Pushes up Leo's shirts--Leo's out of them in a trice--and doesn't waste any more time. Kisses the center of his chest softly, before biting his right nipple just hard enough to make Leo hiss and shake.  
  
  
“Oh, God, baby . . . I missed you,” Leo breathes, laughing a little, kissing Pavel's cheeks, his forehead, even his hair. Reaching between them to rub Pavel through his trousers. “Work of goddamn  _art_  . . . my timing's for the birds, Doc, but I need you in me any way I can get you: cock, fingers--”  
  
  
“Fist?” Leo shudders and groans, and Pavel makes a mental note, kissing his way up to Leo's collarbone and sucking a love bite into the skin. He intends to repeat the pattern all over Leo's throat and shoulders.  
  
  
“'S'at how you want me, Doc?” Leo's breath is light and quick on his temple, his voice low and rough. “On my back, spread open for you and beggin' for your hand?”  
  
  
“On your back and on this desk. Or in your bed, or mine. Anywhere, everywhere,” Pavel adds, pulling down trousers and underwear with one hand, and bringing the other up to Leo's mouth, tapping his index and middle fingers on Leo's lips. His fingers get kissed, then nipped lightly, then welcomed into Leo's mouth like honored guests. Are feted with lascivious swirls of tongue and obscenely noisy sucking sounds.  
  
  
Misunderstandings and time apart aside, this is one area where no guesswork is required. With his brain out of the way, his body always knows what it wants, and knows what it needs. He removes his fingers, turns his face up to Leo's, and is kissed again. And  _kissed_. And kissed some more. It's impossibly good, just letting Leo kiss him, like Pavel Chekov's lips are his only goal in life.  
  
  
What's even better is the amazing, growling sounds he makes as Pavel teases and feints with wet fingers. . . but doesn't quite breach that first ring of muscle, though not for lack of Leo trying and begging wordlessly . . . at first.  
  
  
“Baby, c' _mon_. I can feel how hard you are, so fuck me,” he finally says, soft and ragged, voice like a skein of dark silk that's seen prouder days. He kisses down Pavel's jaw, to his neck. Bites his earlobe, and sucks on it. Pavel grunts, and has to fight the urge to push Leo back down to his knees. Simply remembering himself sliding down Leo's throat . . . Leo's hands clamped on his thighs, both of them fighting for every inch they can get. . . .  
  
  
Simply remembering that is one scant step from it happening. And though Pavel wants it to happen--quite desperately--it's not what he wants  _just now_. Now that he's got incentive, Pavel's more than willing to fight for what he wants. To fight for control, now, even as Leo's hand alternately strokes him, squeezes him, and wrestles with his fly.  
  
  
“Fucking Starfleet issues goddamn motherfucking child-proof  _bullshit_  fucking  _pants_  just fucking _unzip_  you fucking--god _damn_ it, Pavel, quit smirkin' an' gimme a hand here! I  _need_  you, and these pants are workin' my  _last_ , sane goddamn nerve!”  
  
  
All of which is grumbled out on one single, rush of breath, and Leo's eyes are brilliant, equally annoyed and aroused. His brows are furrowed into a scowl, and his lips are pursed, and kiss-swollen.  
  
  
He is . . . everything Pavel didn't know he wanted till he had it, and he knows he'd go to any lengths to keep it.  
  
  
“Be still a moment,” he says, hoping the firmness of tone hides the laughter in it. It mustn't work too well, because Leo's scowl turns into a slightly wounded pout.  
  
  
“'Be still'? God, you got any idea what you  _do_  to me, Doc?!”  
  
  
“Yes. Vhat  _I_  do to you. No vone else,” Pavel says--insists, really, brushing Leo's hand out of the way to take care of his own fly, when suddenly Leo rocks forward, then backward  _hard_ , nearly toppling them both over trying get Pavel's fingers inside him, and swearing when he doesn't.  
  
  
“Behave,” Pavel tells him, pushing chair away from the wall and feeling the underside of the left armrest for the tiny control panel. A second later, the chair soundlessly reclines to a forty-five degree angle, taking he and Leo with it. “I vill give you what need, but you must also do the same.”  
  
  
Leo looks into his eyes, confused--but that confusion clears almost immediately, taking the last of his annoyance with it. He kisses Pavel's forehead. “ _No one_  else,” he reaffirms--promises, really, and Pavel nods. Exhales, and it feels like he's been holding his breath forever. “Y'hear that? No one but  _you_ , Dr. Pavel Chekov. Now  _please._  Will you fuck me, already?”  
  
  
“Yes. I vill make you come until you can't, anymore.” Pavel licks his lips. Licks Leo's lips, too, and fights for self-control, only barely winning. Just wanting Leo is enough to get him off. Actually  _having_  him is like overload-icing on the cake. “But first, I vant you to come for me  _now. Right_  now, Leo. Not because I'm fucking you, but because I'm telling you to.  _Come. Now_.”  
  
  
Leo's eyes widen and he makes a strangled, almost pained sound low in his throat and . . . _comes_. He throws his head back, then slumps forward, biting Pavel's shoulder to muffle his shout, his body shaking and shuddering almost alarmingly, and  _now_  Pavel pushes his fingers into heattightwarmperfect. Finds Leo's prostate and puts pressure on it repeatedly, till Leo starts shouting again and shaking harder than ever, rocking forward against Pavel without rhythm or reason.  
  
  
Well after Pavel's added a third finger--and is debating the wisdom of a fourth after such a bare minimum of stretching--Leo's a shivering, moaning, wet-faced wreck. His lips are moving on Pavel's neck as if he's trying to say something, but every time he starts, all that comes out are hitches and more moans.  
  
  
So Pavel decides the fourth finger can wait till another time. It's pointless now, when he's already kept his promise of making Leo come till he can't anymore. For the moment, that is all Pavel wants: the wrung-out, possibly sobbing man in his lap. And having gotten what he wants, he can at last relax a little of the iron-rigid control over his own body. Just enough to feel his own orgasm waiting like a herd of corralled horses ready to stampede as soon as the gate is opened.  
  
  
 _How curious_ , he thinks, bemused and a little frightened. But he closes his eyes and leans his head against Leo's as he swings that gate wide. Comes much less dramatically, but no less powerfully than the man in his arms. And though his legs are effectively pinned, he can still and does still rock his pelvis upward no less eagerly for coming in proximity to Leo, rather than inside him.  
  
  
There's plenty of time for that later. Time enough for everything they've ever wanted. Time. . . .  
  


*

  
  
  
. . . is really is like taffy if you've gone without sleep for long enough.  
  
  
Pavel doesn't know how long they've been sitting like this, only that his legs are completely numb, his underwear is cold and damp, and his arms are sore, and . . . he's indescribably happy.   
  
  
He watches with unseeing eyes as the CGI fish on his monitor swim and chase each other. Watches till the monitor finally goes into  **standby**  and the virtual keyboard winks off, leaving the room dim. Then he closes his eyes and wiggles his toes--or ties to. He can't tell if they've received the message to wiggle, or not.  
  
  
Leo's face is still tucked between his neck and shoulder, and he's breathing evenly, humidly. May even be asleep. It's been a long day for them both, and . . . Pavel is reluctant to disturb him, even to put him to bed in one of the free cubicles to either side of Lieutenant Sulu.  
  
  
Running his hands up and down Leo's back, he kisses dark, still-damp hair. Leo takes a slightly deeper breath and sighs.  
  
  
“Heyya, Doc,” he drawls, muffled and sleepy, and Pavel smiles, holds him tighter, and wonders if this is what love feels like.  
  
  
“Hello, Leo.”  
  
  
A rusty-voiced, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “That was, uh. . . .”  
  
  
“Yes, it vas.” Pavel kisses his hair again and Leo hums a few bits of some broken melody.  
  
  
“'M I killin' your legs?”  
  
  
“You . . . are perfect.”  
  
  
Leo snorts quietly. “You're s'posed to say that  _'fore_  you get in m'pants, Doc, not after.”  
  
  
“Ah. I apologize.”  
  
  
“S'okay. I forgive ya.” A gently sucking almost-kiss on Pavel's neck. “C'n we stay like this for 'while?”  
  
  
“Of course.”  
  
  
“An' you're sure 'm not too heavy?” Leo starts to shift around, like he's trying to get up. Pavel holds him tighter, till he stills with another contented sigh.  
  
  
“I'm sure. Stay vith me.”  
  
  
“I . . . yeah, 'kay. Think I jus' might. Oh, fuck.  _Fuck_ , I am  _such_  a  _goner_ ,” Leo adds irritably, and Pavel smiles. And smiles. And smiles, till Leo stops grumbling and drifts off again.  
  



End file.
